Siri, Who Am I?

by Sam Tschida

  “Departmental team,” he says.

  All those nerdy lab geeks playing basketball. I clutch my heart at the vision of their awkward hooping.

  I settle on the couch in Max’s T-shirt, which smells like him—Old Spice deodorant, laundry soap, and a hint of something that must be pheromones because I want to bury my face in it.

  Gotta snap out of it, though, and think about my “real” life.

  I backtrack through Jules’s files in my GoldRush app. According to his “ideal mate survey,” he wants a woman between 5’9” and 5’11” who plays the harp, plus some other equally absurd qualifications. Was he joking?

  Maybe there’s a harp-playing Crystal lookalike on Craigslist? I think it’s a long shot but my first search is a fucking B.I.N.G.O.

  Beautiful princess lookalike for birthday parties! Elsa, Ariel, Snow White, Cinderella, Jasmine, Mulan, and Tiana.

  “OMG Max, I figured it out.” I explain my stroke of brilliance. “So all I have to do is decide which princess Jules is the most into.”

  One of the princesses even plays the harp. A birthday (or date, hopefully!) can include:

  ■ Balloon art

  ■ Caricatures

  ■ Princess clowns

  ■ Face painters

  ■ Harpists

  ■ Magicians

  This could turn into quite the date. She could perform magic tricks and draw his picture if the sparks don’t fly. Setting aside the matter of the princess clown, which now I can’t help but imagine as someone’s resume headliner, I focus on the harp player. “So the question is whether one of the princesses plays the harp or if some ugly dude accompanies them.”

  Max gives me a duh look. “All harp players are hot. It’s an unwritten rule.” He can tell I’m not convinced, so he brings Siri into it. “Okay Siri, show me pictures of harpists.” He holds up the phone to show me the results and says, “See what I mean?”

  He’s right. All harpists look like Russian ballerina supermodels. Even the male ones.

  I’m ready to call it. Crystal is out and Elsa is in. I dial the number from Craigslist and one of the princesses, presumably, answers with a dramatic two-syllable “Hiiiii-eeee.” I forgive her. She learned to talk by watching Gossip Girl as everyone of a certain generation did.

  “Hi! I’m calling with a last-minute request.”

  “Ugh. We really can’t do last minute. I mean, we’re booked out for, like, months,” she says as if the princess clowns are Hollywood royalty. “Buuuut…we do have a cancellation this weekend, if you need it.”

  What a faker. They probably have no bookings at all. But I play along. “That’s amazing!” And it sort of is. Now that I know about them, maybe I can just run my whole business with princess clowns. “So I would love to book one harp-playing princess for Sunday.”

  “Just one?” she asks. “We don’t travel alone. For safety.”

  Jesus. “Well, this isn’t for a child’s birthday party. It’s a party, just not a kid party.”

  “Umm,” she says. “Are you asking for what I think you’re asking for, because we don’t do that. Ewww.”

  “It’s just a last-minute thing. I set up a guy with a girl but she’s not going to show up.”

  “I don’t get it. Just tell him she’s not showing. Why would you hire a birthday princess to go out with him? And for that matter, do you want the girl in costume…because that sounds extra freaky.”

  I let out a high-pitched laugh. “Of course not. It’s just that I run a matchmaking service and I have a guy, a great catch by the way, waiting to go on a date with a girl who looks like a princess. He paid a lot of money.”

  After a few seconds of silence on the other end, she says, “I’m not a prostitute. I believe in God.”

  “It’s sex worker,” I correct her in a snobby tone. The indignant correction comes out of my mouth like I say it all the time. Do I? Also, God and prostitution are not mutually exclusive, but I don’t think she wants to hear my opinion. I give it one last try. “I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do, just go on a date with a rich guy who will buy you dinner.”

  “I did not go to clown school to be a prostitute.”

  “I feel ya, girl. Me either.” I take a deep breath and confess. “I’m an entrepreneur, too. I’m not pimping anyone. In fact, if he did anything you didn’t want, I’d be the first to fuck him up.”28

  She doesn’t respond to my generous offer, so I continue. “That’s cool if you don’t want to go on the date, but if you change your mind, you have my number. Look me up on Insta—@Mia4Realz. I own GoldRush.”

  When I hang up, I look at Max and say, “Doesn’t prostitution sound like a natural consequence of clown school?”

  “What?” He opens his mouth to say something else and repeats, “What? What did I miss?”

  My eyes start to water. “Oh my God, what is the matter with me, Max?”

  He puts his arm around me. “It’s okay, Mia. Your brain is saturated. I think you took in more than you can handle today. I feel like I’ve lived at least five Fridays in the last sixteen hours.”

  The tears are flowing now. He’s right. I’ve had enough and it’s late. Also, am I a pimp? “I thought it would be so much easier than this. Just go back to where I took the pictures and fill in the blanks, but it’s all…I don’t know…nothing makes sense. I was partying on a yacht that wasn’t mine. I got knocked out at a party I wasn’t invited to. Who am I? And where is the line between matchmaker and pimp? It’s starting to feel blurry. Maybe Elsa was right.”

  “Don’t worry.” He gives me another squeeze. “You might be a pimp. I’m not ruling that out yet, but…” He catches my eye. “As your vice president, I’m advising you not to worry about your job description. You’re out of sock-drawer money and you need to access your bank accounts. Get online and change your passwords.”

  I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and shake off my existential crisis like a boss. “I’m so glad I hired a genius to help me,” I say.

  Max taps his fingers on the edge of the couch cushion. “Jules has never met Crystal, right?”

  I nod.

  “So your idea of finding a backup is good.”

  “I just need to deliver someone kind of like who he expects.”29

  “I’m pretty sure that you’ll be able to find a woman willing to go on a date with an underwear model tomorrow night.” He laughs. And when he phrases it that way, it does sound absurd.

  “Oh, so you’re good at finding dates?”

  “Never had a problem,” he says, with a look in my direction that makes me believe him. I’d definitely sign up for some of what he’s offering. “I don’t know why that dude needs to hire out.” He looks at me like I’m the expert and asks, “Why is that?”

  Like I know! But before I say that, some guesses spring into my head from the ether, or my subconscious mind—one of the two. “I can see why they want my help. I mean, if you could buy yourself out of the online dating game, wouldn’t you? I think some of these guys are just in it for the convenience. They probably think I know what I’m doing and will save them a bunch of bad dates, like I’ll just provide them with their dream woman on the first try.”

  Max accepts that with a thoughtful nod.

  “Also, there must be some narcissistic asses, guys with money who think they can just order a beautiful girl off a menu. I hope I charge those ones double.”

  He squeezes me shoulder before pulling his arm back. I can’t help but notice that our relationship has been getting more…tactile. I like it, but the rapidly changing dynamic between us is a little too much for me to take in right now. I scroll through my home page on my phone and click on the Wells Fargo banking app. Thankfully my username is plugged in. I click “I forgot my password” because duh.

  Obviously, I do not know the answers
to the three security questions: mother’s maiden name, town of birth, name of cat. Speaking of which: “What if I have a cat?” I ask Max, panic edging into my voice again. Somehow, I just know that I don’t have a dog, which would require stability and consistency. No offense to me but…that seems like a long shot, especially if I have a boyfriend, a secret old boyfriend, plus a bunch of rich dudes looking for dates. Ugh. Who has that kind of time?

  Max puts his hand over mine. “Don’t worry. If you do, I’m sure a roommate is feeding it or something.” With a confused look, he says, “Why don’t you ask JP? He probably knows all of this stuff.”

  “I don’t trust him yet,” I say. “I don’t know why, but I don’t.” That’s not entirely true. The man apologized to me for something, and until I know what that is, I’m going to hold back a little—at least until we can meet in person.

  I push thoughts of JP and my hypothetical cat aside and navigate to my Mail app. I see the email from Wells Fargo and click on “reset password.” It navigates me to a webpage and asks me to create an alphanumeric code that I will promptly dump into the void of things I’ve forgotten, along with the rest of my life. At the end of the process, a dialog box pops up: Unable to reset password. Please contact a bank representative.

  I go through the process again. The same message appears. “Do I actually have to go to the bank? That seems so 1999.”

  Max looks over my shoulder to read the message. “I think so.”

  I make a puking noise. That’s how I feel about doing business in person. I’d rather get food poisoning. But it’s too late to do anything about this tonight; the banks are long closed. “I guess I know where I’m going tomorrow morning.”

  27 Men are so squeamish.

  28 I would be a great pimp, if I chose to go in that direction. But matchmakers aren’t pimps, are they?

  29 “Kind of like a supermodel who plays the harp” is a definition with a large margin of error, I think.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Saturday morning and it’s as if the failures of Friday have been washed away, some of them by dry cleaners. JP’s fancy dry-cleaning service dropped off my yellow dress at the crack of dawn, or at least I assume they did. I wasn’t awake then. Thank you for being rich and practical, JP! So glad I won’t start today smelling like old horchata. California is showing off with low smog and lots of sun. It probably looks the same as yesterday, but the sleep filter is a miracle. My mood = Katy Perry’s “California Gurls” featuring Snoop Dogg.

  So hot I’ll melt your popsicle, I make an entrance into the living room where Max is already neurosciencing and eating a bagel like the amazing man he is. His uniform today includes a pink T-shirt that says the MILLENNIAL FALCON, with a schematic of the Millennium Falcon drawn into the outline of an avocado, which makes me think of an avocado hurtling through space at warp speed.30 I wonder if Max has paused from his quest for a Nobel Prize long enough to consider any of his T-shirts in depth. “So, Max, you were asking where those quinoa farms in outer space were going to be, right?”

  He looks up, waiting for the answer, and I look deliberately at his T-shirt because that is the answer. “Max, where do you get your T-shirts?”

  “Mostly at departmental functions.”

  As I suspected, he’s not a shopper. These T-shirts just happen to him and he doesn’t question it. Sort of like me. I am now one of his T-shirts. He doesn’t know why I fit, but there’s no denying that I sorta do.

  “So I was thinking,” he says, “let’s start at the bank today.”

  “Let’s,” I answer.

  * * *

  We’re pulling the Ferrari into a space on Linden near the bank when Kobra texts. Can I buy you a latte sexy?

  What the—?

  When? Why?

  Yellow is your color. Meet at Cuppa.

  Then, after a moment, he adds:

  Now.

  “This Kobra asshole is really starting to annoy me,” I say to Max. But before I can tell him more of my thoughts on snake boy, I look over his shoulder and my blood runs cold. Max has just parked in front of Cuppa Cuppa, which is only a block from the bank—and of course I’m wearing my yellow dress, now stain free and smelling slightly of dry-cleaning solvents. How does Kobra know we’re here?

  I show Max the text.

  “Kobra? Which one is he? I can’t keep up with all of these assholes.”

  “Kobra with a K, the snake charmer compensating for his tiny dick, or at least I assume—how can you forget him?” I don’t remind him that keeping up with all of those assholes is his brand-new job. “Remember? Crystal went out with him and never called him back.”

  “Learn to take rejection, asshole,” Max says. “You gotta cut him loose from the roster and block his calls.”

  I’m waiting, the usual place, your regular drink.

  The longer I sit with the weird string of texts, the more I get that sinking feeling in my gut. This isn’t someone I can ignore. For whatever reason, Kobra knew I would come here. Did my phone send out some signal? Did I post something without knowing it again?

  I show Max the text and he gets real quiet, probably thinking the same thing. “He’s either following us or tracking you.”

  “Maybe I should call and tell the police that a creepy stalker is following me.”

  “Not a bad idea,” he says.

  “I don’t want to call the police yet. I want to see his face and figure out what he wants. Right now, he knows more about me than I do—and I need to find out why.” He’s a piece of the puzzle, even if he’s one I’ll eventually want to throw out.

  Max nods. “I’m cool with that. I don’t think he’s going to kill either of us in a coffee shop. And we need the caffeine.”

  “I know. And that maple latte was to die for.”

  With an expression that is 100 percent Really?, he says, “Maybe not the best choice of words given the situation.” He opens the car door and hooks his arm through mine. “I’ll be your bodyguard. Let’s go meet this asshole.”

  “Do you think I should tell the barista, like maybe she could write down his real name and…”

  “Unless she knows kung fu, I don’t think you need to let her know. You already have lots of information about the guy from the GoldRush files. I mean, you had to have done some research to make sure he was actually a millionaire.”

  “Unless I’m an idiot.” That seems likely at the moment.

  “Definitely not an idiot,” Max says, which makes me feel a little better. He’s definitely not an idiot, so if he says I’m good, I’m good.

  I take a deep breath and step onto the sidewalk. I can do this. I just have to pretend that I’m a badass. Actually, I don’t have to fucking pretend. I am a badass. Who does this fucker think he is? I’m shaky but not from fear; I’m just mad as hell. “Let’s get a coffee and find out what his deal is.”

  Max holds up his hands. “I wouldn’t mess with you. Let him have it and I’ve got your back.” He might be a neuroscientist who hasn’t seen the outside of a lab since I hired him, but I believe him. Advisable or not, Max will defend me against all of my enemies.31

  I don’t say it out loud, but I know we’re both thinking it—this is probably the guy who sent me to the hospital. Maybe art museum guy thought it was a woman, but Kobra has just moved to the top of my suspect list.

  Once we’re inside Cuppa Cuppa, I scan the shop. It’s quiet, a few people with laptops are scattered around the room as far apart from each other as possible. The barista from Friday is behind the counter and she gives me a nod when she catches sight of me. “Hey!” She starts to ask if I want the regular before stopping herself to beckon me over conspiratorially. When I lean over the counter, she whispers, “I think someone might have already ordered for you.”

  “Really?”

  “You know how you were asking
me about your friends earlier?”

  I nod.

  “You’ve met the guy on the patio here before, once or twice. I remember the one time for sure because it was the same time you lost your cell phone.”

  “Ah. You found it in the bathroom, right?”

  She nods.

  I have a feeling that had something to do with Kobra. I don’t know what, but it can’t be a coincidence that I lost my phone when I was with him and now he’s tracking me. Unless it is.

  Before we step outside, I ask Max, “Am I just being a conspiracy nut, or…”

  “Nope. People have evolved to believe in conspiracies because they exist. Natural selection favors people who avoid threats that might result in reproductive loss and harm, like conspiracies. Your ability to see potential conspiracies is evidence that your brain is perfect.”

  Is Max hitting on me? “Not as good as your brain, Max,” I say in a semiseductive voice, then add with complete sincerity, “Thank God I hired a scientist.”

  “I’m a neuroscientist, Mia, not a Geek Squad guy, if you’re thinking about the phone issue.”

  I point out the obvious. “A guy named Kobra who thinks he can charm snakes figured out how to hack my phone in a few minutes. I’m sure you can, too.”

  The back patio, which I didn’t notice on our last visit, is a beautiful brick courtyard with bistro tables and big umbrellas. It feels very European, though the palm trees lining the square sort of ruin the vibe. I spot Kobra immediately, and he sees me too. He’s wearing an unbuttoned shirt and his snake tattoo covers his whole torso. I feel sexually harassed just being in his presence.

  “Hi, Kobra.” I try to act as natural as a person can while saying hi to a guy named Kobra. I don’t want this asshole to know that I don’t remember anything before Tuesday, that I’m vulnerable. Even if he was the one who sent me to the hospital, he doesn’t have to know he knocked all the brains out of me. #gameon.

  Max dramatically pulls out a chair for me and I say, “Thank you.”